


The Backwards Temple

by WriteMessyShit



Category: Bleach
Genre: Age Difference, Arrancar / Shinigami, Breasts, Dead Husband, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feminism, Grimmjow is part of the Gotei 13, Large Breasts, Marijuana, Older Woman/Younger Man, Overcoming Sexual Shame, Sexual Shame, Vaginal Sex, Widowed, dead spouse, manual sex, maybe part of a larger series, we'll see where it goes / who likes it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteMessyShit/pseuds/WriteMessyShit
Summary: A widowed shinigami has to face her demons — and choose, for herself, which to exorcise and which to keep.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Backwards Temple

Tora stares at them. Her eyes shift from one person to the other, Yoruichi and then Grimmjow. It’s all too obvious now.

Her face turns red with anger.

“Enough!”

A kimono is hard enough to walk in, let alone stomp away in. But she does it. She hates these clothes, she wants to get them off. She leaves Yoruichi standing there in her casuals, obviously out of place, clearly only there to ignore Tora’s desire _not_ to date. There is muffled yelling, a heated discussion behind Tora. She doesn’t look back.

The plan’s ruined. They must have thought this was all for the best. Yes, that’s what it was, those assholes. They believe they’re angels by doing this, offering Tora something new, a new hunk of meat to chew on. They believe she’s hungry, which is a mistake. She’s not hungry; she won’t ever be hungry again. Offering another man in place of one’s dead husband is not how you solve a problem. Tora doesn’t want the problem to be “solved” anyway. It’s too late for that. Nothing can truly solve it. Nothing can free her of those chains. She has to wear them. Yoruichi can’t see that. You can’t just will that stuff away. Women Tora’s age did not _date._

Instead of walking back into the carnival, Tora turns and slips behind a tent. She’s not staying any longer. She doesn’t care about the fireworks or the treats, or seeing others in kimono. She feels like a piece of meat herself, being all dolled up and presented to anyone who can see her. A hankering, wonderful, seductive piece of meat, but that makes her ashamed at the same time, and she tries to forget it. She darts through the bushes behind the tents. She’ll go home and change out of all this, and then see if she even _wants_ to come back. She wants to rip the kimono to shreds.

“Hey.”

This is the last thing she needs. She doesn’t want to turn around, but he’s right there.

“What?” she says, rather nastily. As a rule, Grimmjow doesn’t seem to be insulted by anything, much less a reflection of his own subpar behavior. Of course, by virtue of being new and intimidating, he’s suddenly become the unwitting star of the Gotei 13. Internship brought him to work alongside shinigami, and ever since, the Women’s Association has been keen on figuring him out. He’s been all the rage since his arrival, and tonight was the last straw on Tora’s back. He’s been shoved in her face too many times. She couldn’t ignore him even if she wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It doesn’t seem genuine, or even understanding. They’re foreign words in an Arrancar’s mouth.

She turns around and keeps walking.

“I think it’s stupid, too,” he calls after her.

“Then why are you talking to me.”

“So you don’t go crazy.”

She turns around. He’s infuriating to her. Everything he says just makes it all worse.

“Do you even know what’s actually happening here?” she snaps. “It’s an inconvenience for you, but what is it for me? Did they tell you?”

“Who?”

“Do you even know what’s going on?”

“Yeah.”

“What then?”

He furrows his brows at her. “You know.”

“It was a setup. And you’re complicit in it.”

“Hey,” he says. “That’s a fuckin’ lie.”

“Why would I lie?” she snarled. “I’m the one being shat on here. I know what’s happening to me. Don’t pretend you understand.”

“I don’t _pretend_ anything.”

“Then, what? Did they tell you I had a husband? Or did you just know out your asshole?”

He’s undeterred. “ _They_ being who?”

“The Shinigami Women’s Association. Yoruichi.”

“I don’t even know what that first thing is. And she told me...”

Tora holds in a growl as he continues, tuning him out. He’s clueless. Why would he come all the way out to a public event to do this to her? Like an insensitive idiot. Could she expect any less from an antisocial Arrancar?

“I’m going home.” She turns away. “The next time you apologize to someone, make sure you know what for.”

* * *

“Look, I don’t care that you have a husband.”

She stares at him. _Had._ She _had_ a husband. Past tense.

Should she kill him? Or just boot him out?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean,” she asks, though she isn’t sure she wants to know. It doesn’t feel right to want that.

He leans on her desk, pressing his hands flat against the tabletop. He’s trying to flirt.

“Get out.” She tries her best to mean it. She wishes he would. But she wishes she didn’t have to say that.

“What.” He asks as if there’s something he can do better. It’s borderline annoying, but not quite. He’s walking along that line, knowingly.

“What do you even want?”

“To talk.” He pulls up one of the chairs across from her desk, planting his elbows on the edge of the table. His hair is a whacked out mess. He seems to have styled it, but she’s not sure to what effect. It looks wild.

“I don’t entertain people,” she says coldly. She’s afraid.

“I know. You’re boring.”

“Apparently not.”

“Boring to most.”

“Again, you’d be surprised as to how untrue that is.” Anger is bubbling in her chest, but it’s at a safe distance from being tapped. For now. Why is she so mad? Nothing is happening. But anyone could walk in. Anyone could see.

He rests his cheek in a palm, staring her down with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t sit here and ogle at me.”

She stands to pour herself more tea.

“You’re asexual, aren’t you.”

Her eyes turn back to him. She’s in utter disbelief.

“You’re a pig.”

“What? Nothin’ wrong with being that.”

“Assuming that I’m asexual because I’m not responding to you? You’re an idiot if you don’t think that implies I’m defective.”

“I’m not saying that.” He shrugs. “I’m just asking why you’re not interested.”

She stares at him. She doesn’t know what to say. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“No.” It’s an automatic response. “Not romantically.” That doesn’t fix it. She hates herself. She hates her position. Why does he and everyone else make this so hard? “Why the hell would you be interested in me? I’m twice your age.”

He scoffs. “Lady, you don’t even know.”

“My name is Tora.”

“Tora. Like I said, you don’t even know.”

“I don’t even know what?”

“How old I am. You’re not old.”

She doesn’t believe that. “Well, I look older than you. And that looks a certain way around here. I wouldn’t expect _you_ to know.”

“Why do you care how it _looks?”_

“Because I’m not interested in looking like a slut.”

“For some himbo prince charming or other. Right.”

She stares at him. He shrugs. “I read it in some human society book. Feminism or some shit. You guys are a weird bunch.”

“Women?”

“No. Just humans in general. Like, how do you get that far gone? We just fuck who we fuck if they want to fuck, and if they don’t want to fuck tomorrow, tough shit; go jerk off and smoke a joint.”

This guy.

Why is she so fascinated? She had been staring at him, looking into his eyes, across his lips. Why is he here? Why is he here for her? Why is he _still_ here?

He looks back at her. His eyes are piercing icy blue. She looks away.

He hesitates. It’s a first.

“You want to go on a date?” Something in his voice changes and he shifts in the chair. “Unless you’re not that type. What do you want to do?”

Nobody had ever asked her that.

She doesn’t know how to answer.

* * *

He’s back in her office the next day. He closes the door this time. He knows better.

She sits up a little straighter today. Her mind isn’t so harsh. If he’s back, maybe he thinks she looks good? She can hardly imagine it. But she likes it.

In a bit of silence, as she’s typing up a phone message, she watches him out of her peripheral. He’s thinking deeply. At one point, he appears to agree with himself on something. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms as if he were cold, and yawns.

“You know what’s boring?” he asks.

She doesn’t reply.

“My fuckin’ squad.”

“They’re all warmongers,” she answers. “You should be right at home.”

“See, that’s what you people think. But all this shit is boring as hell. Everything you guys do is just a fuckin’ drag.”

She just lets him talk.

“Go patrol here, station over there, go hang out in the human world for shits and giggles. Take a class on humans ‘cause you’re a stupid Arrancar. Alright, I learned some shit, but then these captains of yours take everything too seriously.”

“Do you smoke?”

He looks up. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Or maybe it’s shock. It’s one of those things that a seasoned, well-respected temple cleanser like Tora isn’t supposed to do. She can do it in darkness, tucked away in a closeted part of the Rukon District, where no one knows her name or who she is. She recognizes the smell on anyone, regardless of how faint it is. Grimmjow isn’t good at hiding it.

“Sure,” he answers quietly. “You mean like cigarettes?”

“No, I mean weed. And not the bad kind that you get from that Karakura High School kid at midnight by the 7/11.”

For the first time, she watches in triumph as he goes beet red. He can barely look at her for a second.

“What’s better then?” he asks softly.

She leans in, elbows on the table. She watches his captivated eyes. He looks all over her. She loves it.

“You don’t know a thing about this place.”

* * *

A slow, curling cloud of smoke puffs out her nose. He watches from across the ramshack room. Every time he shifts, the floor creaks.

“Why are shinigami so uppity about this?”

“It impairs our work.”

“So why aren’t you uppity about it?”

“Because it doesn’t impair _my_ work.”

The first time she ever smoked was by herself in the backyard garden of her husband’s home. He was never home in time to smell it. She made sure of that. He went in and out like clockwork, so it wasn’t hard. And that weed wasn’t the good kind, but it was the heartfelt kind. A gift from a long-since passed friend.

“So you don’t like sex?”

She looks at him, half chewing on the pipe. He’s already pretty high. This is the kind that makes you sleepy.

“I don’t like people.”

“You chose the wrong afterlife profession.”

“Maybe.”

The only nice thing about the place is the cushions. There’s one on each side of the table, massive things that you sink into. They’re almost royal, but they’re ugly. She’s glad it’s dark, even when she’s alone. Mayuri is probably the only other person who smokes that she knows of. And he doesn’t do it often. But he has the good stuff. He mainly uses it for experiments and medicines. He gives it to her for it’s spiritual properties. Unlike her husband, Tora understands the importance of weed in purifying the inner temple. Maybe it’s not relevant to her work (it most definitely is not), but at least she can purify herself of _him._ And that’s all that matters.

Grimmjow’s face illuminates orange from the lamplight. She passes the pipe to him, and he takes a slow drag. His eyelids droop. She leans back into the cushion.

“If you want to transfer squads, I have a position for you,” she says. “I can’t promise it’ll be any less boring. But it’ll be a change of pace.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Assistant stuff.”

“Like what.”

“I gotta monitor all the temples for the captain commander. Purify them and crap.”

“So, a grunt.”

“Sort of?”

“Then tell me what I’m doing.”

“Making sure I’m not an idiot. I only have two hands.”

“So, holding stuff.”

“I’m depressed.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So, make me less depressed. Or at least make sure I don’t forget things. What do you think of it?”

“I’m not a secretary.”

“You’re not exactly a feminist either, but I’m only half asking you to be a secretary.”

“Bull barf. I’m saying I don’t know shit about office jobs. I’m usually the one out there choppin’ off hollow heads.”

“That part isn’t too lively. I just said it existed.”

“You’re bad at selling things.”

“Sure.” She hesitates. He really is dumb, and dumber when he’s high. He hadn’t caught on, but she isn’t sure if she should explain. Is she in her right mind? Yes. Everyone else is out.

“What you do with the rest of your time is open for discussion.”

“What?”

God, he’s stupid. She rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”

Slowly, she meets his eyes. Normally blue, they’re stained partially orange in the firelight. If she lets herself imagine it, she sees him following her around, pulling her aside during one of the many walks from building to building, grounds to grounds. He’d pin her against the wall inside a garden shed, kissing her just so, his breath tasting of weed from the night before, the smell of the flower garden interwoven from beyond the door. He’d impregnate her, it would be a huge scandal, and they’d still be on time to their next temple inspection.

She looks away.

“Do you think this is a stain?” she asks.

“What?”

“Does this make me look bad.”

“What, smokin’ dope?” He shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“So comforting. But what about for anybody else.”

“I could care less.”

She handles the pipe as he passes it back, taking a drag. “How much do you do it?”

“Maybe twice a month.”

That was a lie.

“Did you do it yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“So this is your second time this month.”

“I don’t have a schedule.”

“I do.”

“Why.”

“It’s a ritual.”

“For what?” he scoffed. “Keeping the demons out?” His smile is so sexy.

“You could say that.”

“How’s that goin’?”

“Poorly. I have to keep doing it.”

“I hear demons like the smell of weed.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

It’s all quiet for a moment. She passes the pipe. He takes a drag, but a smaller one. He’s watching himself.

“I don’t think being an assistant is really my thing,” he says. She figured he would say as much.

“That’s fine. Just thought I would offer it.”

He’s silent, thoughtfully staring at the flame inside the lamp.

“What if I came part of the time?”

“That’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t have to transfer. I mean, the shit’s boring over there, but I think I’d go crazy without it.”

He’s a man with his own goals. She hadn’t really seen that before. She feels less important now.

“Do whatever you want.”

He looks at her.

“What do you want me to do?”

“What does it matter? You’re acting like I’m your superior in this.”

“I’m not asking you as my superior.”

“Then what?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want.”

He’s quiet, and takes another drag. The smoke goes through his nose and mouth as he tries to make a smoke ring and fails, snorting. Then, his face goes serious again.

“What sorts of stuff do you want me for?”

“Records.” God. Records. She wants him for more than that. Fuck the records. That’s her high brain speaking. The demons most definitely are not out, even if everything else is.

“Records of what? I have to write?”

“Sure. They’re cleansing and upkeep notes. Checklists.”

“Oh.”

“Do you write well?”

“I dunno. You tell me.”

“I mean, is it neat? I’ll tell you what to write.”

“It’s alright then.”

“Legible?”

“Sure.”

“Then you just follow me around and write whatever I say.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs as he passes her the pipe. “Sounds easy.”

* * *

A headache pounds against her temples. The sun is already beginning to burn her, she can feel it. This whole thing is starting to feel like a mistake. Grimmjow hasn’t shown up. It’s what she gets for doing anything the same way her husband did. She used to be the assistant, after all.

But then, only a few minutes late, she sees his figure coming down the street. She stands up to face him. As he approaches, she can see the sweat on his face.

“I just got done training.”

“Yes.” She hands him a writing pad. “Don’t smear anything.”

He wipes his hands on his pants. His hair is dripping.

“Do you want to get something to drink first?” she asks. “We can stop and get water or something.”

“I’m fine.”

She steps out from the protective shade. “Alright.” She starts to walk ahead.

“Where to?”

“The first shrine.”

“How many are there here?”

“Not here. In Karakura.”

“Oh.” He sounds sheepish. She doesn’t look back at him. He collects himself. “You look after shrines in the human world.”

“Yes.”

It feels a bit backwards, this pairing. Nothing like Tetsuya. He was collected, hardly ever discombobulated. He felt like a comfort, but plastic. At first, it was horrible when he died. But not in the way most people thought. She almost couldn’t admit it to herself. But she was glad he was gone. But even then, she didn’t feel anymore free. Even after he was gone, other people took his place, and they kept her in hers. His job became hers. And she inevitably became just like him somehow. She didn’t like it.

“You have your gigai?” she asks.

“No.” He looks even more awkward than he sounds.

“We can go get it.”

In no hurry, they walk back to his home. It’s the basic flat for subordinate shinigami, a square, box room, like a cell. The window is cracked, blowing green cotton curtains slightly. Most rooms came without curtains. She watches them in quiet interest as he digs out his gigai. He’s thoughtful. Or maybe he just likes to sleep in the dark. There is no sun in Hueco Mundo, after all.

He turns back from his dresser. His gaze makes her heart skip a beat.

“Ready?” she asks calmly. He nods.

* * *

“Why’d we bring gigais?”

His voice echoes in the shadows of the shrine. She places the smoking incense inside the hanging pot.

“Kumiko Shrine,” she says, almost singing. He opens the notebook and pens the name down. “Cleansed with lavender, prayed over for peace.”

For a moment, he’s scribbling. Then, he closes the pad and looks up at her again. She can tell he’s hungry, maybe even bored. She sighs and pulls out her own gigai, inflating it. He does the same. Once she’s inside her own, she looks back at him. He has on a black button down with the sleeves hastily rolled up. She feels like an idiot in her dress.

“We can walk around town,” she says.

“Why?”

“Why not. I always do.”

“You like to reminisce?”

Somehow, his uncensored thoughts are less endearing now.

“No. I like human ice cream.”

“What?”

“Ice cream.”

He’s at a loss. She almost wants to snort.

“You’ve never had some in Seireitei?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re having some now.”

Tomoe’s Creamery is down the street a few blocks. It’s packed in the evening. As they make it to the street, she can see the lights from the sign beginning to glow in the dusk. The street is clear for the most part. She turns toward a crosswalk, and Grimmjow is already stepping out. She grabs his arm.

“Are you an idiot?” She pulls him back.

“There’s nobody coming.”

“You don’t know how to cross a street, do you? You don’t jaywalk.”

“What?”

His arm shifts, and she lets go, but his hand reaches hers, wrapping around. Her face starts to burn as she stares at the crosswalk lines.

“When was the last time you were a human?” she asks.

“Like, millennia ago.”

“You really don’t have any clue.”

His fingers lace with hers. She looks up at him. He has every clue. He doesn’t know how to blend in with human society, but he does know what he’s doing.

The crosswalk beeps, and a voice says, ‘walk.’ She looks away again, beside herself.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“I dunno. You’re touching me. You’re doing date stuff.”

“Don’t act dumb.”

“Is that why you asked me to be your assistant? So you could convince yourself it was okay to walk around the human world with me?”

She pulled her hand away, folding her arms as she crossed the street. Still, she turned back, facing him as she walked backwards. It was hard to keep a neutral face when she looked at him. He watched her with confusion.

“Come try some ice cream with me.” It was all she could say. He caught up with her, hand relacing with hers, this time with his arm around her body. She liked that. It made her feel alive.

* * *

Her television is running, the light illuminating the dark living room. The voices on screen drone quietly, subtitles changing every few seconds. A couple beers are on the coffee table, empty. She’s barely listening to the TV anymore.

His arms wrap around her from behind. She’s sandwiched between his legs. A couple of his fingers have pulled up her dress and started rubbing her clit through her underwear. She leans back into him when he does it just right. She feels him already hard against her hips; he’s been that way for a while now. In a deep breath, cutting off a moan, she turns toward his neck. Part of her gives into the dream. His free hand strokes up her back, beneath her dress. He unclips her bra. She pulls it away, kissing his neck now, and his hand comes up to roughly cup her breast, pinching her nipple. She hums a moan without thinking, but she stops herself. She wants to turn and hug herself tightly to him, but when she opens her eyes, it’s really him. It still is. His eyes meet hers in the television-blue light. She kisses him.

He smells like swallowed dairy, vanilla and sticky strawberry. His lips wet hers. She loses her breath completely. Her arm reaches up, draping around his neck as she turns toward him completely. He lifts her dress over her head. His bare hands push against her boobs, fondles her nipples. She lets out a huff of a moan. She pulls his hand back down to her clit. He undoes his pants. She slips his cock out of his underwear. 

She rides him. He presses against her, the friction and heat and size so foreign to her. It overwhelms her senses. One hand tickles her clit, oh so right, and the other fondles one breast at a time. She’s pushed him down onto his back now. He can lean up and kiss her nipples. He whispers sweet praises to her under his breath, like prayers. She shivers. Her gaze lands on the glowing television as she can feel the heat in her loins build. Almost. On screen, a red archway guards the entrance to a shrine. The subtitle below reads, nearly in his voice: _That temple is a pure place; no demons are allowed in._ His fingers hit her just right, and they keep it. The heat mounts, her muscles contracting. She can hardly breathe. Her vulva pulses uncontrollably around his girth. He groans. She looks down at him. He can feel her.

“Goddess,” he moans. His face curls into a blessed smile as she rocks her hips harder against him. His stomach muscles tense as he cums. In the background, she can still hear the TV.

_And with that ritual, the impurity is cast out from this holy place._

She sits on her haunches as he absent-mindedly squeezes her hips in the afterglow. His fingertips trace over her erect nipples. He looks at her like she’s his deity. She doesn’t mind.

She feels clean.


End file.
